There could be but one solution to the mystery. Blueskin, utterly reckless in his mad desire to revenge himself, was spraying petrol on the yacht’s deck. At any moment a lighted match thrown by the miscreant on the quayside would make the _Kestrel_ a mass of flaming woodwork. CHAPTER III An All-Night Watch Peter Craddock had to decide promptly upon his plan of action. Two courses suggested themselves: either to arouse Mr. Grant and give the alarm, or else to scare the miscreant away. He decided upon the latter plan. Too much valuable time would be wasted in waking the Scoutmaster. More than likely the other Sea Scouts would be roused; and then, if one of them struck a match, the highly explosive mixture of air and petrol in the cabin would go up with terrific force. No; his best plan would be to frighten away the cowardly rogue, who was certainly counting upon the supposition that the crew of the _Kestrel_ were sleeping soundly, in order to carry out his diabolical plan. Grasping an electric torch that he always kept within hand’s reach during the night watches, Peter slipped out of his bunk, glided noiselessly out of the cabin, and gained the cockpit. Then, directing the torch towards the quay, he released a dazzling ray. He was too late to spot the miscreant. In spite of the Sea Scout’s cautious movements, the man had heard the disturbing sounds. Afraid to complete his dastardly work, the fellow had taken to his heels. Peter could hear his boots clattering upon the stone paving. It was now almost dead low water. The _Kestrel_ was high and dry, supported by legs and lying parallel to and at a distance of a couple of yards from the quay, the edge of which rose quite eight feet above the deck. Consequently the quay served as a ridge to prevent the rays of Peter’s torch sweeping the whole extent of the open expanse between the line of cottages and the creek. By the time Craddock had gained the cabin-top, whence he could command a view of the adjoining ground, the fellow had disappeared. Although this escape of the miscreant was a disappointment, Peter realised that his hideous plans had been frustrated. “Who’s there?” enquired Mr. Grant’s voice from the cabin. Aroused by Craddock’s movements—and it is remarkable how plainly the faintest sound can be heard on deck when only three-quarters of an inch of matchboarding intervenes—the Scoutmaster sat up, listening intently. Evidently the fumes of the petrol had not as yet penetrated the bulkhead separating his cabin from the one in which the seven Sea Scouts slept. Before replying Peter re-entered the saloon. As he did so the puppy gave an aggressive growl. Brandon woke up. “Phew!” he ejaculated. “What a whiff!” “It is,” agreed Peter. “Turn out, old son, and rouse the others. Don’t let any of them strike a light. The place is chock full of petrol fumes.”